French Mornings
by Mello McQueen
Summary: Mornings in France. For Ladylily Draco/Harry


**Written By:** Mello McQueen

**Summary:** Mornings in France.

**Pairing(s):** Draco/Harry

**Authoress Note(s):** For Ladylily.

* * *

**French Mornings**

Mornings in France start off slow, with a quiet moan or a soft whisper of a name into even softer pillows, followed by the shift and creak of bedsprings as bodies move, trying to pull away from one another without success. Pressed together on the small bed, with it's fragile looking iron frame-that is, in truth, much, _much_ sturdier than it looks-the boys are too close to have any hope of untangling themselves from one another, and in this place, would never really want to even if they could.

Still, as pale blue light filters in from the open window, passing through flimsy white drapes with ease, a soft yawn echoes throughout the room and limbs shift, tanned arms wrapping, securely, around a too-thin waist. With a sigh, Harry buries his head into the soft flesh of Draco's neck, and inhales the earthy scent that clings to his lover's skin. Draco moans in response, and their bodies press closer, limbs tangling further beneath the sheets.

"...mmm, Draco..." Harry half says, half moans as his body drinks in the warmth of the man beside him and he is swiftly lulled back to sleep.

.:.

When he wakes, half an hour later, it is to the feel of fingertips fluttering softly over the exposed flesh of his abdomen, and Draco's voice whispering just as soft into his ear: "Time to get up, love." With a groan, Harry stretches sore muscles, and turns, curling into the man beside him.

"In a minute." He protests, voice muffled and thick with sleep. Beside him, Draco gives a soft silent laugh, and Harry groans again. "...fine." He says, with feigned annoyance. "I'll get up now."

It is ten more minutes before either of them actually moves.

.:.

By the time they make it outside, it is past 8:30 and the streets of the city are coated in a brilliant tangerine light that washes over everything, painting the world a pleasant shade of orange.

On the doorstep, they still haven't managed to untangle themselves from one another quite yet, and walking down the street, their fingers are interlaced, arms touching at the elbows and shoulders. They lean close, keep together. Twice Harry almost trips, over himself or Draco, neither is sure but each time Draco catches him, laughing, and holds him tightly, burying his face into Harry's neck, strands of blonde hair tickling the surface of his skin, making Harry blush. Making him smile.

At the restaurant, the one they've eaten breakfast at every morning since they arrived, things are hardly better. Beneath the polished glass surface of the table, their legs mingle together, and sometime between ordering, and waiting for their order, Draco's shoe is discarded and his foot finds it's way up the length of Harry's pants leg.

As Harry's face turns red, and he shoves his hand under the table to swat away the foreign limb, a laugh bubbles up from Draco's throat and it is soft and sweet and makes Harry smile behind the hand held over his face. "You're awful." He says, as the waiter serves them their food. The man looks uncomfortable, but not enough to do anything about it, and so he smiles at them politely, before walking away.

Behind his back, Draco snickers. "Poor man, must feel dirty just looking at us."

"Gee," Harry says, lowering his hand and reaching for a piece of toast. "I wonder whose fault that is." He asks, rhetorically, as he takes a bite.

Draco scoops up a spoonful of scrambled eggs, and smiles at Harry across the table.

.:.

"-all I'm saying, is that it's odd. I mean, here we are, in France. You'd think we'd order some actual French food once in a while." Draco states, as he reaches under the table to retrieve his shoe. His voice is amused and argumentative at the same time, and Harry watches him across the table, knowing that, while he doesn't mean for it to be, his tone is argumentative as he speaks.

Just a bad habit.

"Fine, Draco." Harry responds, conceding, even though they aren't really arguing. "We can order French food tomorrow morning, okay?"

Draco pauses in tying his shoelaces to consider this. After a moment, he nods. "Okay, good." He says, with the air of someone whose just won something important, then pauses, thoughtfully. "I like French things," he says, and smiles finished with his shoe, he stands up. "French toast, for one thing."

Harry smiles, moving to his side as they start walking. "French toast is good." He says, and Draco nods.

"Yeah, and French syrup. French Twists. French maids. French-"

.:.

"-croissants. French vanilla. French fries. French-"

"Kisses?" Harry interrupts Draco's long tirade of all things French as they stand at the doorway of their shared hotel room. Draco blinks down at him, as though he has momentarily forgotten he was there, but is quickly and happily reminded of the fact, as Harry's mouth crashes onto his and they fall into the room, tongues twisting together like snakes. At the kiss, the world fades into a blur around them. When Draco is thinking again, he's lying on the bed, on top of Harry with a dazed sort of look.

Even so, he laughs. "Now who's awful?" He asks, and Harry only smiles, impishly, before kissing him again.

**End**

**Authoress Notes:** I want to point out that French Fries aren't actually French. That is all.


End file.
